Part Two - Captions - Poem DEAR HELENE

Used to have dinner with the Demings but with the darker weather coming, I decided to try for breakfast!

Great idea!

Drove over for breakfast. Brought my own, Vanilla Full Fat Yogurt, Brown Cow, with Snyder's Pretzel Rods mixed in.



Moooo!

Upon arrival, Max was in the vestibule playing with his trains.

Grace sat at the filled-with-things dining room table and I asked her, Ever heard of Where's Waldo? She had.



WAL-do?  I say, WAL-do, where ARE you?

Dan was indisposed, if you know what I mean.

Later we all met at table.

Long story short. Grace had Cheerios and milk. Later on I finished them. But they were much sweeter than I reemembered.

Later on we played card games in the den.

What fun! I had absy no idea what I was doing - sadly, true - but the kids helped me.



When it was time to go home, Max begged his dad to play hide n seek, but Dan kept saying no. As a kid, Dan would beg me, his mudder!

All right, Max, I said, I'll play w you.

Hmmm, I thought. He probly has his fave hiding places.

Suddenly I saw a hidden closet adjoining the staircase.

THERE HE WAS!  We both laffed hysterically.

Next it was my turn. I raced into the den, hid under a blanket, scrunching up my body, and he found me after a bit of a search.

More hysterical laffter!

Them kids! Ya gotta love em!

DEAR HELENE

The rain was barely pattering when I drove over
to POWERBACK on Davisville Road to visit my
fallen angel Helene, who was there to get
her power back.

Miserable, she sat picking at her food in
a wheelchair, and brightened considerably
when she saw me.

Deming, she said, looking the same as always.
Her family doctor told her to tell people her
age - 89 - because she looks so young.

What a long life I've had, she said. And a
wonderful life though I've got a nitwit son
who when she was moving from Bauman Drive
threw everything from the house into
the Dumpster.

I managed to grab lovely dinnerware she wouldn't
need at Rydal Park, a few utensils you'd order
online from America's Test Kitchen and photos
that hang in my bedroom.

Lemme just taste your burger, I said, putting lettuce
and tomato on top. Pas mal. Not bad.

Tater tots? Hard as rocks. Bean soup, flavorless.
A fruit compote for dessert. Not terrible, but you
should have tasted Helene's compote she had at all
times in her Bauman Drive Fridge.

Her angels visit her. Nephew Jerry Silbertstein,
Naomi Mindlin, whose husband runs the Photo Journal,
which Helene used to write for.

On the window was a card from Peter Miraglia.

Such fun they used to have!

Oh, Hollis is gone? I exclaimed. One of her many
online correspondents. His wife was Andrea Baldack,
she reminded me.

I think they named a room at the Philadelphia
Museum of Art after her.
http://www.andreabaldeck.com/

I think I want a prune, said Helene, and I pushed the box
toward her on her bed tray, which also contained the Potok
book Davita's Harp, which I'd promised to read.

A manservant entered the room and took her food away.
Wish you could put her in her bed, I said, she's
awfully tired.

Actually, I said, I'll just swoop her up and lay her in bed.

Absolutely, she said, confessing that's her new favorite word.

Her husband used to finish her sentences like a particular family
member of mine.

A family member in Russia contacted them and what do you think he wanted? Money. Somehow Aaron got out of it.

Jigsaw puzzles helped his coordination when he got that blasted Parkinson's disease.

I used to call and invite myself over. She'd threaten me that
if I wasn't there within half an hour, there would be no breakfast, like Davey Ire Pancakes made in the oven.

I'd choose my coffee cup. She'd brew a cup of El Pico or Yuban. Starbucks or Dunkin were unheard of.

We'd talk about Art Matters, where we both worked. The fellows
I'd gotten from there - Chris Ray and Fredenthal - was it
Burt Wasserman who went up to Fredenthal's garrett with me?

Did I tell you I came home just now with soaking wet hair? My wipers
were going full blast and I could barely see a thing.
Imagine, sailing off and flying down Davisville Road
onto the Turnpike like in a film noir.

I kissed her soft skin goodbye.

Yes, she will be up and walking. It will not be soon.

Helene Ryesky at her Bauman Drive home before moving on.